


Pas De Deux

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham's non-"Imagine" writings [12]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: Pas De Deux (French, literally "step of two") is a dance duet in which two dancers, typically a male and a female, perform ballet steps together. Written for the Moodboard One-Shot Challenge.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Series: Gotham's non-"Imagine" writings [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/345053
Comments: 31
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/189626731275/pas-de-deux-a-moodboard-three-part-one-shot)

_With thanks to **iamnottrisha** and **taamagams!!**_

\-----

Claire Beauchamp – Miss Claire to her students – sighed and rolled her stiff shoulders, squinting at the pile of lab reports yet to be graded.

Another Thursday night working late in her cramped office at PS 345, recognized for six straight years as one of Brooklyn’s top-performing middle schools. Two months ago she had started her fourth year as a seventh-grade science teacher, her creative approach to topics ranging from biology to buoyancy winning accolades from students and a precious tenure slot the year before.

She truly loved the school – so much so that after leaving Frank she’d bought a co-op just a ten-minute walk away, on the border of Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens. The charming brownstones and tree-lined streets were the perfect antidote to her years living in a Manhattan high-rise, all cold steel and glass and cold neighbors and a cold husband married to his deals.

When she realized she’d been looking at the same diagram for five minutes, she sighed, feeling deflated. No use continuing tonight.

Quickly she organized the papers on her desk, shrugged into her blue peacoat, and slipped the remaining lab reports into her satchel. Already thinking about the Lebanese food she’d pick up on the walk home, and how Adso would wrap his furry gray body around her ankles as soon as she unlocked the front door.

She stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind her.

Faint music drifted from the direction of the arts wing.

Intrigued, she padded down the quiet hallway, passing lockers and darkened classrooms and walls covered with flyers of all colors and sizes. Turned at the corner –

Ah. Light blazed from the art studio, where Jamie Fraser hunched over a sink, his back to her, washing paintbrushes, fast-paced orchestral music blaring from speakers mounted at two corners of the room.

This wasn’t the first time that she and the second-year art teacher had found each other working late – and truth be told, seeing him there tonight made her smile.

Shaking her head – damn, she was just like her students sometimes, mooning over a ridiculous crush – she knocked loudly on the classroom door.

Jamie startled, turning to face her. Then smiled broadly, wiping paint-streaked hands on his denim smock.

“What’s it tonight?” she teased.

He fished a remote control out of his back pocket and dialed down the volume. “What did you say?”

“I said,” she smiled, slowly walking into the studio, “what are you listening to tonight?”

“Ah.” He leaned back against the sink. “Tchaikovsky – Swan Lake. I just got my hands on this great new recording from the Bolshoi, in Moscow. It’s amazing.”

“Ballet?” Claire’s eyebrows quirked, and she set her satchel down on one of the classroom tables – careful of the coffee cans full of paintbrushes.

Briefly Jamie turned away to set out the damp paintbrushes to dry on a towel beside the sink. “What – can’t a man have many tastes?”

“Well – whenever I’ve found you in here blasting your music before, it’s been anything from rock to folk to country music. I thought all of you artistic types were into the indie stuff.”

Jamie reached behind his back to untie the strings of his smock. “I only like the classics. Too much of art and music these days is bullshit. If you have to be told that it’s great, or told what political statement the art is making, then it’s not art.”

She smiled. Feeling refreshingly alert. “So, Mr. Artist – what _is_ art?”

He hung up the smock on a peg beside the sink. Crossed the room to stand just a few steps away. Looking a bit tired in his flannel and corduroys – his eyes, however, so alive.

“Art is something that stirs you, and resonates with you, and that you know is beautiful.”

She swallowed.

He ran paint-stained hands through his short, thick red hair. “And, well – my sister is a professional ballet dancer.”

Claire laughed – tension suddenly relieved. “What?”

“Yeah.” Why did his voice sound so shy? “I grew up going to her practices and recitals. So I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for ballet.”

“Who was the Impressionist that was particularly enamored with drawing ballet dancers?”

“That would be Edgar Degas. The Met has rooms dedicated to his pastels.” Jamie tilted his head a bit. “Since when do science teachers know anything about art or ballet?”

She lifted her chin. “My uncle raised me after my parents died – he worked very hard to give me a well-rounded education.” She balled her hands into fists, safe within the pockets of her coat.

Jamie sat on the edge of the table. “My parents died too.”

Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m – ”

“Don’t apologize – please. Mom was an artist – she encouraged me, and my sister. After she died, my father did the same. And now, here I am.”

Claire swallowed. Wanting nothing more than to keep talking to this man.

“Do you like Lebanese food?”

–

“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

Jamie wiped his mouth with a napkin before diving back into his piping-hot lamb sandwich.

“I love this place.” Claire took another bite of falafel, digging deep into the paper bag for another slice of pita. “It’s been owned by the same family since the turn of the century. And you saw all the grocery items, right?”

Jamie nodded, re-crossing his legs on the bench, watching the cars whizz by on Atlantic Avenue. “Do you live close to here?”

“Yeah. I love it. What about you?”

“I’m up in Greenpoint. I inherited Mom and Dad’s brownstone. It’s silly to be in such a big house by myself, but – ”

“But you can’t part with it. I understand.”

He turned to look at her. Really look at her – crazy curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, falafel crumbs on her coat, a smudge of white sauce on her chin.

_Why hasn’t some lucky man snapped you up?_

It took five seconds for his tired brain to realize he’d spoken the words aloud.

How he wanted to sink into the sidewalk.

But Claire set down her styrofoam tray. Pursed her lips. Really looked at him.

“One did,” she whispered. “But he threw me away.”

Chastened, Jamie reached across the bench. Wiped the sauce from her chin with the flimsy paper napkin from the take-out bag.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize – please. I’ve got my own life now. My students – a job that I love.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time – watching her, and the taxicabs gliding by, and the hundreds and hundreds of people hurrying past on the sidewalk.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway. We got some baklava for dessert, right?”

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

She blinked. “Friday? Um…nothing, I guess.”

He nodded. “Good. I want to take you somewhere, if that would be all right. Wear something halfway nice – we’ll leave from school.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you taking me out on a date, Jamie?”

He smirked. “Just returning the favor, Claire.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/189645401465/pas-de-deux-a-moodboard-three-part-one-shot?is_related_post=1)

She’d fretted all night.

What to wear the next day.

What the hell was going on between her and Jamie.

How intense his eyes had been.

How sweet the baklava had tasted when they shared it.

The heat of the kiss on her cheek after he’d walked her home from Sahadi’s.

Adso’s happy meows as he devoured Jamie’s leftover lamb.

She could barely focus on her lessons that day – and the students certainly didn’t mind when she decided to show a National Geographic documentary about whale sharks. She watched it six times with her classes, hoping that the simple purple dress she’d found at the back of her closet would be good enough.

They’d agreed to meet at four thirty – ninety minutes after classes ended.

So just as Claire buttoned up her coat, Jamie knocked on the door of her office. He was dressed nicely – black pants, dark blue button-down shirt, gray peacoat draped over one arm.

Claire smoothed invisible fuzz from her coat. “Hi,” she smiled.

“Hi,” he smiled back. “You OK to take the subway for a bit?”

She nodded, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “Lead the way.”

He did – a quick walk to Atlantic Terminal, and then they waited for the 2 train on the Manhattan-bound platform.

“When are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she teased.

The train arrived, and he followed her into the car, taking a seat next to her. Boldly he took her hand.

“We’ll be switching to the 1 at Times Square. Maybe that’s enough of a clue.”

She squeezed his hand. “Well – in the interim, can you tell me about your family?”

Through Brooklyn and lower Manhattan, he did. And she did.

His stories about Greenpoint in the 1980s – the Polish restaurants, the longshoremen, the Saturday afternoons digging in the backyard for bottles and pottery shards discarded around the old turn-of-the-century outhouse.

Her stories about Canada and Brazil and Tanzania and Australia, roaming the world with Uncle Lamb and his anthropology students.

Their stories about living in New York, and their students, and how their beloved neighborhoods had shrunk with gentrification.

At Times Square they exited the train and crossed the platform, still holding hands. As the 1 train approached they watched a man playing “Under The Boardwalk” on steel drums. Jamie drew Claire closer to his side.

The 1 train they boarded was an older model – individual orange and yellow molded seats stacked against each other. Claire squeezed in between Jamie’s broad shoulders and the sticky metal wall.

“Are you hungry?”

She turned to look at him – noses inches apart. “I can always eat.”

“No food rules I should be aware of?”

She smiled. “No. Just good food.”

He glanced out the window – the train rolled past the ceramic tiles of ships at Columbus Circle. “I know a good place. Nothing fancy.”

Claire lay her hand on his knee. “I hope you know I don’t need anything fancy. You don’t need to woo me, Jamie.”

He met her eyes then – firm and clear. “Yes I do, Claire.”

She opened her mouth to reply – but the train jerked to a stop. Jamie stood. She grabbed his hand and followed him onto the platform at Lincoln Center. Marveling at the mosaics of musicians and acrobats and opera divas singing arias on the station walls.

Five minutes later they were seated at a bustling restaurant, browsing a menu of American classics.

“We’ve got plenty of time before the show,” Jamie said softly, reviewing the wine list.

“Are you going to keep it a secret until we go across the street?” she teased.

He looked up. “Let me just enjoy the fact that I can surprise you.”

When the waiter arrived, she ordered a medium-rare cheeseburger and an Old Fashioned. Jamie smiled so broadly as he ordered a steak and a Manhattan.

“No salad for you, Claire?”

She rolled her eyes. “Rabbit food. In many of the places I lived with Uncle Lamb as a girl, if you couldn’t peel it or cook it, you couldn’t eat it.”

“And you’ve kept those habits, even though you’ve been back in the U.S. for how many years now?”

“Eleven.” She paused as the waiter returned with their drinks. “I never wanted to be one of those women who feel compelled to watch every single thing that they eat – to survive on green juice or whatever the hell they pay all that money for.”

Jamie raised his glass. “To being independent-minded.”

She clinked her glass against his. Sipped her drink.

“I assume that doesn’t bother you, Jamie?”

His brows creased. “What are you talking about?”

She swallowed. “That I’m…different. That I have my own opinions.”

“What? No, Claire.” He reached across the table and took her free hand. Caressing. “Don’t even think about that being something negative.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m divorced?”

He set down his drink. “No. You can tell me whatever you want, Claire, whenever you feel comfortable, and I promise you it won’t bother me. It _does_ bother me that whoever he was, he was stupid enough to not appreciate you in the way you deserve.”

“But – ”

“Are you _trying_ to push me away, Claire? Because I hope you can tell that I’m trying very desperately to get to know you, and share my world with you. And I want desperately for you to do the same. However much of yourself you want to share with me, I’ll gladly take it.”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what it is between us, Jamie. But I’m open to it. I’m open to you.”

He released her hand. She heard his chair scraping against the floor – and then he gently took both of her hands. Her eyes flew open – seeing him kneel before her, in the crowded restaurant, not caring about the wait staff or the people gawking from neighboring tables.

“My heart is open to yours, Claire. Please know that.”

Tears slipped from her eyes. “I do,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hands. Rose. Leaned over, breath hot against her cheek.

“Good,” he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/189720307194/pas-de-deux-a-moodboard-three-part-one-shot)

They split the bill for dinner, and then Claire let Jamie take her hand and lead her across the street. Lights in the fountain sparked reflections across all three buildings at Lincoln Center.

“I’ve never been here before,” she breathed.

Jamie pulled her tightly against his side, watching people bustle about the complex. “I’m glad to give this to you,” he whispered, kissing her temple.

Something surged within her – but Jamie was already tugging at her hand, striding toward the building at the back of the square.

“Sometimes I’m sorry that I didn’t see the original Metropolitan Opera House, before this complex was built by Robert Moses in the 60s.” Jamie’s voice was strong, quiet, as they approached the theater. “But I do have to say – there’s something very special about this place.”

Once inside, he went directly to the Will Call.

“Two for tonight’s performance, please. Last name is Fraser.”

And then she stared down at her ticket.

“Swan Lake,” she whispered.

“Of course. I told you it’s one of my favorites. But I didn’t tell you that my sister Jenny is dancing in it tonight.”

Stunned, Claire met his smiling eyes.

“How else do you think I could have afforded these tickets?”

–

Walking up the curving, red carpeted staircase to their seats was like something out of a dream.

“Some people say that orchestra seating is the best,” Jamie explained as they carefully walked down the sloping aisle to their seats at the front of the balcony. “But I like sitting up here – you can see the entire stage, plus the musicians.”

Heavy gold curtains draped across the stage. Claire watched individual musicians warm up in the pit, practicing their scales, laughing with each other.

“How long has your sister been with the ballet company?”

“About ten years now – she’s worked her way up to be what they call a principal dancer. And one of only a handful of dancers in the New York City ballet who are actually from New York City. The company truly seeks the best talent from all around the world.”

Claire thumbed through her Playbill – Jamie was right. Dancers hailed from Kiev, and Buenos Aires, and Paris, and Moscow, and Los Angeles.

“I don’t see a Fraser,” she frowned.

Jamie’s finger pointed out a smiling, dark-haired woman. “Janet Murray. She’s married to my best friend Ian – we all went to school together. She’s one of the only married dancers.”

“Is Ian a dancer as well?”

“God, no!” Jamie laughed. “He’s a police officer. Passed the sergeant’s exam earlier this year.”

Claire shook her head, then squinted at Jenny’s photograph. “I’d expected she’d be red-haired, like you.”

“She takes after Dad’s side of the family – they were all much darker in complexion. I take after Mom’s side.”

She turned the page. “Jenny is dancing Odette. Is that the main character?”

“Yes. She’s danced in this ballet many times, but only this season she’s started dancing Odette.”

Claire set down her Playbill, and took both of Jamie’s hands. “Thank you for taking me here. It’s – it’s all so much more than I ever could have expected.”

He raised one of her hands to his lips, and kissed it ever so gently. “Thank you for allowing me to take you here. It’s…I’ve never had anyone to share this with. Who would appreciate it.”

He flushed.

“Did you ever dance ballet, Jamie?”

“I tried – but I don’t have the coordination for it. I’d rather be drawing.”

“So – what do you draw?”

“Whatever I see around me. I like charcoal – it’s so simple, so freeing. Just a few strokes and life begins to take shape.”

She crossed one leg, rubbing her boot against his. “Anything in particular that you like to draw?”

“People. Faces. I drew a lot of dancers when Jenny and I were growing up – I had my Degas phase. It’s very hard to capture movement accurately.”

“Would you like to draw me?”

Quickly Jamie glanced at his watch, then fished around in his jacket pocket, producing a small rectangular metal case.

“That looks like what my uncle would put his cigarettes in.”

He lay the case on the armrest between them, and carefully flicked it open. “It used to be something like that.” He turned it around so that Claire could see inside – six neat rectangles of chalk, black and white and four shades of gray. “Now I never leave home without it.”

He flipped through his Playbill, removed the paper insert announcing the casting change for the night, and placed it, blank side up, on his knees. He turned in his seat, balancing carefully, facing her. Began to draw.

Suddenly self-conscious, Claire swallowed, feeling her cheeks flush.

“Hold still,” he whispered, eyes flicking between her face and the paper.

She did, mind racing, watching as he rotated the paper, smudged it a bit with the pads of his fingers, then smiled once it was all done.

“Here.” He held it out between them.

It was her, all right – rendered in the most delicate of lines. With just three sweeps of chalk he had captured her brow, cheeks, nose, chin – and smile.

Simple. Stunning.

She swallowed, fishing in her purse for a tissue. “Here – I didn’t see anything in that case to clean your hands with.”

Tentatively she took the drawing, studying it as he wiped his hands.

“It’s amazing how quickly you can do that.”

“It’s easy when I have a beautiful subject.”

She closed her eyes. Knowing he could see her hands shake.

“What are we doing, Jamie?”

“We’re going to watch the ballet. I’ll hold you close to me, and tell you the story, and hope against hope that you’ll continue to open your heart to me. And then when it’s done, I’ll introduce you to my sister. Maybe we’ll go for a drink. And I’ll see you back home to Adso.”

His warm, warm hand carefully rested on her knee. “I hope that one day, you’ll see this drawing and remember every moment – every second – of this night.”

She swallowed. “I can’t believe I found you.”

Her hand found his. Carefully he slipped the drawing into his Playbill, set it on the floor, and enveloped her hand in between both of his. “We found each other, Claire.”

Then a chime sounded, and the light fixtures began ascending up to the ceiling, and they settled into their seats – Jamie’s strong arm around her back, his hand safe between both of Claire’s.

He kept his promises that night.

Whispering the story unfolding on the stage:

_That’s Prince Siegfried, and his overbearing mother who tells him he must choose a bride at the royal ball. He’s upset that he can’t marry for love. His buddies try to cheer him up, but it’s no use. As evening falls, Siegfried sees a flock of swans flying overhead, and suggests they go on a hunt to clear his mind._

_Now here we pick up the story a bit later – and we see Siegfried lost at the lakeside. A flock of swans lands – and just as he aims his bow, one of them transforms into Odette. I can say Odette, and not Jenny, because to be honest I can’t recognize her with her hair and makeup and costume. You can see how terrified she is – but Siegfried explains that he won’t harm her. She tells him that she and the other swans are the victims of a curse from an evil sorcerer. By day they are swans, and by night, beside this enchanted lake, they regain their human form._

_Odette tells him that the spell can only be broken if a man who has never loved before, swears to Odette that he will love her forever._

_Then the sorcerer appears, and Siegfried wants to kill him – but Odette persuades him not to, for she fears that if the sorcerer dies, she will be cursed to live under the terrible spell forever._

_Odette and Siegfried fall in love, that night by the lake – and as dawn breaks, she and her companions turn into swans again._

_Now here we are the following evening at the costume ball – where Siegfried has been ordered to find a wife. Here are the girls his mother wants him to marry. And look – here is the sorcerer, in disguise, with his daughter who is disguised to resemble Odette. Siegfried gives her attention, thinking she is Odette._

_And now we see Odette appear in her human form, trying desperately to warn Siegfried – but he doesn’t see her. And he proclaims to the court that he will marry the sorcerer’s daughter. But then the sorcerer shows Siegfried a magical vision of Odette – and he realizes she’s not there. He flees the castle, hurrying back to the lake to find her._

_Odette is distraught. Siegfried appears and apologizes. Odette realizes she can never have the life with him that she wants, so she chooses to die. Siegfried chooses to die with her, and they leap into the lake. This breaks the sorcerer’s spell over the other swans. He dies. And in the last scene of the ballet, the swan maidens watch Siegfried and Odette ascend to heaven together._

The orchestra rose to a crashing crescendo, followed by a sliver of silence. The crowd rose to its feet with thundering applause.

Claire turned to Jamie, tears streaking down her face. She caressed his cheek and pulled him close for a long, long, sweet kiss.

“I’ve never loved before, Claire,” he rasped against her lips. “But I hope – ”

“I only want to be under your spell, Jamie,” she whispered, pulling him back for more.


End file.
